There's Something about Charles Xavier
by nilsign
Summary: Charles has a killer in his head and he's not afraid to use him. Wesley doesn't mind letting Charles take the reigns in between the fun parts as long as he gets some action so it all works out. Charles/Erik
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own anything including Wanted (2008) or X-Men: First Class (2011)

Based on this kink meme prompt shamelessly stolen for summary: Charles has a killer in his head and he's not afraid to use him. Wesley doesn't mind letting Charles take the reigns in between the fun parts as long as he gets some action so it all works out. Cue BAMF!Charles/Wesley action?

XXX

The first clue that something was amiss with Charles Xavier, Erik discovered on his second night stay with the CIA.

"-Stryker? You can't mean Agent Stryker, right?" It was an agent's voice, the one who ran the facility, sounding just around the corner. Erik curiously stopped to listen. Perhaps it had something to do with Shaw. The doctor had already gotten his hands on one U.S. government official, who's to say he hadn't gotten his hands on another?

"Exactly him, and..." the other man paused hesitantly here. Charles Xavier, Erik's mind provided. Erik had only known the man for about a day and a half and he was already intimately familiar with the slight turns and lilts of the telepath's voice. It helped that Erik had yet to rid it from his mind since the first day he heard it there.

"...and his son William as well," said Charles sounding a bit regretful. "I thought it would be best to inform the CIA before I carried out the order considering their affiliations." There was another pause in which the telepath must have read the other's mind for the next moment was accompanied by a wave of faint, almost ticklish, pressure against Erik's mind. He'd been caught out, Erik knew when he felt the sensation of tingling laughter that followed after.

"No need to worry yourself." Erik couldn't tell if the telepath was addressing him or the agent. "This is a rather unusual case from my experience. Names from the CIA don't come up often." There was a sound of someone patting a shoulder. "Now if you'll excuse me, there is another matter I must attend to."

"Of course."

Erik sensed the metal of the pen tucked in Charles pocket more than he heard his approach. The younger man was unnervingly light on his feet. "It's rude to eavesdrop, my friend," said Charles turning the corner but the reprimand lost much of its affect to bright red lips turned up in amusement.

Erik didn't comment, instead waiting for the question of 'How much did you hear' because surely he'd walked into something he wasn't supposed to, even if Erik hadn't heard that much. But Charles merely shook his head and touched to fingers to his temple. Telepath, of course.

"It was nothing about Shaw," answered Charles to his silent question, "It's a side job of mine actually. Nothing you need concern yourself with." Erik wanted to ask more but Charles tone brokered no room for argument or inquiry and if there was the slightest compulsion attached to Charles' words, Erik hadn't noticed, and simply let the matter drop.

"Care for a game of chess then?"

XXX

The second clue that something was a little off with Charles Xavier, occurred in Russia, as Erik single-mindedly tore his way through the Soviet general's house.

"Erik!" Erik only dimly registered the gasping man behind as a non-threat before he dismissed him altogether, knocking out another soldier by the butt of his own gun. "Erik, wait up." Three more soldiers came this time, and he used the metal of their straps and buttons to slam them against the wall. Erik didn't even slow down.

It was only when he heard, "Erik you asshole, wait up!" that he halted. It was the shear absurdity of hearing such a foul word pass the ever charming, perfect, English gentleman's lips that made Erik pause to see if was hearing things.

"Finally," the other huffed, slowing down to rest his hands on his knees.

"Charles, did you-"

Two rifles were about to turning the corner behind them, more importantly, behind Charles, and Erik fingers were already half-curled to crush the men wielding them. He didn't have to. In a burst of action that Erik hadn't thought the small telepath capable of, Charles managed to grab the end of one gun to lever it straight into one soldiers face and slip behind the other to bash their head with a small handgun he usually carried around.

"I'm sorry, what?" barely winded now as if Charles hadn't just knocked out two grown men twice his size.

A dozen questions popped into Erik's head. Did you really...? Did I hear you correctly when you...? How and when did you learn to...? Instead he settled for, "Are you all right, Charles? You sound a little...off."

An odd expression flashed across Charles' face so fast that if Erik blinked he would have missed it. "I'm perfectly fine. I'm more concerned about you rushing off to face a fuc- telepath without any protection, my friend."

Erik would have bristled at the mention of him needing protection from anything if he wasn't so focused on Charles' mannerism. The 'my friend' was more an afterthought than a natural fixture that Charles usually made it out to be and...

"Well you can proceed as you were, Erik. At least now that we are together, I'll be able to intervene if Frost attempts any telepathy on your person." And no, it was Charles speaking in the Queen's English again. Perhaps it was stress that made Charles revert to the American accent earlier. He had lived in the states since he was eight years old after all.

They barged into a man making love and whispering sweet nothing to the air.

"Nice trick."

XXX

The third clue that something of another side that existed within Charles Xavier, was very brief and happened right after they heard news of an attack on the children, the CIA agents lost were only an afterthought.

Raven was sobbing in her hands. Alex was trying to stay strong focusing all his concentration on a point on the wall. Hank was staring at the floor. And Sean looked to the side looking as if he wanted to be any place but here. Erik though, had all of his attention on the telepath beside him and it was because of this that he was the only one to catch it.

Charles' face was something murderous. It was as if he was a whole other man altogether. Fist clenched until knuckles were white and a certain tension that gave the impression of viper poised to strike. Fascinating as it was though, this transformation, Charles was beginning to project murderous intent and Erik had to do something. He grabbed the telepaths hand. It appeared to be the right choice. For in the next instant, the rage that seemed so alien to Charles seemed to drain away, red crescent marks imprinted on his palms the only evidence it had ever been there.

"They're only children, Erik."

XXX

The fourth clue that something was seriously strange with Charles Xavier was the loom that was kept running all throughout the night and had its own room set aside for it.

Charles and Raven specifically said that everyone had free reign of the home, for their home was everyone's home they reasoned, and that no room should be barred to them, contingent only on the fact that they try not to break too many of the Xavier household's antiquarian pottery and such. History was a bit harder to replace than standard walls and windows. So Erik took it as permission to explore while he took one of his early morning walks.

It was the delicate weaving and bobbing motion of so many intricate metal parts that had drawn him to the room. Erik had sensed it immediately on the first day of their stay but Raven had not deemed to include it in her tour of the house, probably to not tempt the boys into doing some irreparable to the delicate machinery.

As to what purpose it served to the Xavier's though was beyond him. They were very well off, judging from the sizeable estate, and hardly need to make their own clothes and there was only one machine to produce the cloth so it wasn't a matter of business. An heirloom of a sort then?

"You could say that, my friend," Charles said as he strolled in hands behind his back, walking around Erik towards the loom itself.

_Get out of my head._

"Apologies, you're curiosity was rather loud. I couldn't help but overhear." Charles was now extending a magnifying glass Erik hadn't noticed in his original inspection, there were too many metal parts to differentiate all of them, over the loom.

Charles continued on, "I obtained it from some old associates of my father and now it's just something I feel like I should continue in his stead."

Erik vaguely wondered how Charles father had died but dismissed it as too personal a question to ask. Although it didn't stop him from thinking this hobby of Charles' was a tad silly.

"You intend to save the world one square foot of linen at a time Charles?" Erik asked.

"Something like that," said Charles. He finally looked up from whatever he'd been doing inspecting the cloth and stood up, "Now if I do recall correctly, you're the only one I haven't gone through proper training with yet. Any ideas in mind, my friend?"

Erik thought of the gun he felt on Charles' side. "I have one."

XXX

The fifth clue that something was very wrong with the perfect picture that was Charles Xavier, was the week he had disappeared with a note saying he'd gone on a job of a sorts with a man named Wesley Gibson.

"Who's Wesley?" he asked Raven. If anyone should know, it would be Charles' sister who'd been by his side for over half his life.

"You sound jealous," Raven smiled amused, "and here I thought you only had eyes for me." She trailed fingers up his chest teasingly before he caught them in their path none too gently, loosening his grip immediately when he saw her wince. Erik rubbed them in apology before letting go.

"Concerned is more like it. Shaw is still out there and we are not prepared. The human's on the verge of nuclear war. I hardly think Charles is the type of man to disappear in such a time of crisis on a whim. Now tell me, why is he gone and who is Wesley?"

Raven bit her lip before conceding, "You're right. Charles wouldn't leave unless it was extremely important. But it is, it really is." The weight of Erik's glare pressured her to go on. "It has to do with his other job, not as a professor, the one his original father used to do..."

"The one with the loom," Erik questioned doubtfully but Raven took it as a sign that she had already said too much on the matter and clammed up. Erik sighed, "and Wesley?"

"Wesley Gibson is...," Raven trailed off, stalling for what Erik didn't know but he allowed it anyway, "is his partner for these jobs. Without Wesley, I don't think Charles could ever...They're just very close, you see." Another vague explanation, Erik was going nowhere fast.

Raven had finally had enough. "I don't know!" she threw her hands up in frustration, "Just go ask Charles when they get back!"

News came back a week later, of Stryker and his son's assassination during their trip to the Lakes.

XXX

The final clue that Erik didn't truly know Charles Xavier, was when Charles came back and it wasn't Charles at all.

"You're not Charles."

"What the fuck was your first clue?


	2. Chapter 2

_'Quit being such a pussy and get the fuck on with it.'_

_'I am not a-'_ Charles cut off the thought before it could go any further. He wasn't about to let Wesley drag him down to his level.

Not that it helped much. Not when you were debating with a man who lived inside your head (or did Charles live in his?). Even if one of them didn't 'hear' the other, they could certainly feel the other's responses. This time was no exception and Wesley made sure his amusement was projected so that Charles knew that Wesley knew exactly how far to 'his level' Charles had stooped anyways.

_'Well I suppose you could say it's the thought that counts, right Charles?'_

_'__I'm not going to do this with you, Wesley, not here_. 'Charles sighed as he settled himself against the hallway wall. The agent they were waiting for should pass by here in five minutes if they telepath judged his pace correctly. That would give him some time. _'Just let me think.'_

If you thought holding a 'debate' with the voice in your head was confusing, try holding an honest to god argument with yourself. It is fucking impossible. Charles and Wesley had only true argued three times in their conjoined lifetime, and each time found them at the completely opposite end of the argument from whence they started. The mental walls that held their distinct personas apart couldn't hold up all the way.

Emotions ran too high and when they did, they had a tendency to bleed through, occasionally carrying their thoughts and ideas with them, which had led to more than one complication. For the longest time Charles actually thought he was responsible for Kurt Marko's death. That was bullshit, of course. It was Wesley who did it and Wesley's only regret was that Charles regretted it.

_About a nicer way to say: Hey, how it's going? I'm sorry. I just wanted to stop by and say I'll be putting a bullet through your coworker-"_

_'Wesley!' _Charles warned.

_'and his son soon, figured you'd want to know.' _Wesley scoffed._ 'There's no nice way to break this down, even for you Charles.' _Charles was careful to direct his glare to the ground lest a camera catch the seemingly inexplicable changes in his expression.

Charles knew Wesley had a point but... _'It would be better to wait then, at least until our partnership with the CIA has reached an end. I imagine it is difficult enough associating with a known killer. I'd hardly think they'd abide our killing one of their bosses in addition very easily.'_

_i'Kill one, save a thousand remember? You know as well as I do the longer you make us pussy out the more people that are going to-'/i_ and Wesley felt Charles agreeing with every word. _'You're just stalling because of the kid,'_ Wesley thought in realization.

No point denying it. _'Perhaps,'/_ admitted Charles.

William Stryker Jr. was a great deal younger than their normal range of targets. Charles hardly thought it possible for a boy that young to ever manage to commit something so atrocious as for Fate to arrange his death so early in life.

_'Young man, Charles,' _Wesley corrected. _'He's nineteen, almost as old as I was when I joined the Fraternity and even older than Lensherr when he-'_ A flash of steel, blood, pain, _thisisformyfuckingmother, _his hand digging through their chest just like the Herr Doktor had done to him. He's strapped down to a metal gurney, pinned like one the frogs Charles let Wesley dissect for their chemistry class, and the doctor is reaching down to his chest with a scalpel that looks just like the one they used for the frog and-

_'Snap the fuck out of it, Charles!' _Charles came back to reality with gasp and a lingering stinging sensation to his right cheek. Wesley must have taken control of their shared body sometime while Charles had been out of it and slapped him...himself, them. It would probably depend on when Charles came to, after the slap, during the motion...

_'Thank you for that,' _said Charles sincerely. Sometimes when Charles read minds where the memories were simply too strong, they would revisit him in such crystal clarity that he would feel he was living the moments themselves and Charles could lose himself to them for hours on end. Luckily Charles had Wesley, and Wesley would always be there to find him one way or another.

But Charles thought the slap was a bit too harsh, _'Though would you care to be a little more gentler next time?'_ Charles fought the urge to rub his soar cheek.

_'I was thinking you could do with a little more roughing up now and again.' _Wesley thought back cheekily.

_'I thought that's what you're here for.'_

_'Spare the whip, spoil the child.'_

_'That has nothing to do with anything!'_

Charles had the distinct impression Wesley was doing the mental equivalent of humming and ignoring him, despite being confined to the space of their head, when, _i'Heads up, boss man's here.'/i_ And indeed the agent was coming down the hall, Charles checked his watch, just as he'd predicted.

_'You're rich, you're a telepath, and you've got the perfect weapon in your fucking head. I think it's safe to tell it to them straight. Or you could always save yourself the trouble and shortcut this. Mindfuck him and move on.'_

_'I will not be 'mindfucking' anyone' _Charles thought back while out loud Charles said to the agent, "Hello, sorry to disturb but if I could only have a moment of your time."


	3. Chapter 3

Neither knows exactly the why's or how's, only that this is the way it has always been, if their memory could be trusted, and always will be, unless one day Charles decides there shouldn't be – which Charles always reassures Wesley he would never do, when the topic comes up, but to which Wesley always points out that's bullshit because _iyes, you've done it before asshole_,_ /i_ and Charles erasing himself from their shared existence is just as bad as Charles thinks erasing Wesley is...especially when Charles leaves Wesley high and dry with boring as fuck jobs with bosses name Janice – _iand no, Charles, still not over it. /i_

The scientist in Charles once clinically speculated that their present state of existence was likely the result of a coping mechanism, to deal with the manifestation of their telepathy, that Wesley Allen Gibson was probably their original name, and that Charles was the excess personality created to deal with it. Charles tried to explain it to Wesley one time. The proof was right there in Wesley's hereditary mutation, the one that enabled him to push their body beyond its 'natural' limits, to move at impossible speeds, and bend bullets, but Wesley would hear none of it. How did that go again? Oh yes, Wesley simply _icouldn't give two fucks about it_ _/i_ (because to Wesley, Charles was more than that) and Charles had never brought it up again.

Whatever the case, all that really concerned the both of them about their arrangement, was the trouble that arose when the voice in your head didn't quite care to share your opinion, like in the case of one Erik Lensherr of which they are literally of two minds about.

Wesley doesn't even need to ask why Charles and his bleeding heart are calling a clearly deranged man his friend and following him into the middle of the Soviet General's house with over a dozen armed soldiers, and Charles probably already knows Wesley's less than friendly feelings on the matter, but Wesley felt like it needed to be put out there anyway: _i 'I don't like him.' /i_

Charles, who is in the middle of running after Erik, nearly trips himself over a hopefully, just unconscious soldier at the sudden declaration and it takes a beat before Charles fully registers what's been said. "You could use a spot of work on your timing, Wesley," Charles says aloud before he can regain his mental and physical footing.

_'Talking,' _Wesley helpfully points out,_ 'and I thought it was the perfect time, seeing as we're – I don't know – chasing the guy in the middle of the Soviet Union.'  
><em>

_'Assisting, Wesley,' _Charles corrected, _'with a highly important and classified mission for the CIA.'  
><em>

_'That why they decided to hull ass and ditch Lensherr, Charles?'  
><em>

_'Very classified, my friend. So classified in fact, I don't think they'll remember it till morrow's morning if not, not at all.' _Because in the off chance this did fall out, it would be more than a little red tape they'd have to deal with for mutant and government relations seeing as the responsibility of reflecting their entire race rested among the seven – or eight – of their team plus Shaw – who was no good example at all and who Wesley thought should really count as negative five which combined with Lensherr's shining example right now, meant they were going up shit creek without a paddle in the ways of relations.

_'And what was this I heard about no mindfucking?'  
><em>

_'Extraneous circumstance,'_ reasoned Charles.

Wesley lets out a mental snort. _'I have a feeling you'll have a lot of those if you keep hanging out with Lensherr,'_ replied Wesley pointedly forcing their eyes on the very obvious warpath Erik carved for them – out of Russian soldiers and knotted rifles no less.

_'Honestly, I don't see why you of all people don't like him,' _Charles thought, finally addressing Wesley's earlier statement and equally pointedly ignoring said warpath. _'You two certainly have a lot in common, perhaps more so that the two of us.' _And certainly, Wesley cannot deny this.

Lensherr is a lot of things. Lensherr is a mutant. Lensherr is an asshole. Lensherr is angry, revenge driven, ruthless, and far too high on his own power and enjoys hunting Nazis for a hobby with games of chess on the side, in other words, nothing Wesley hasn't been before. But these also aren't the reason Wesley dislikes Lensherr.

No, Wesley dislikes Lensherr because Lensherr is an angry, revenge driven, ruthless, far too high on his power, Nazi-hunting, mutant asshole who was going to get Charles killed.

_'And you know it' _Wesley added.

And then it is Charles turn to concede that Wesley has a point. The mere act of sleeping in the same room as Erik was liable to cut your life expectancy in half even if you were his friend, as he found during their recruiting spree. Charles and Wesley almost got murdered by a pair of silverware when they ordered for room delivery one early morning while Erik was asleep.

But Charles was no stranger to danger - especially when he had a self-proclaimed killer in his head – and he couldn't help point that out. _'For the record,'_ replied Charles as he turned a corner and sent another set of guards to sleep with whispers of a stolen language, wiping their memories in the process, _'our 'hobby' has the potential to be just as dangerous to our person if not more so.'  
><em>

Hopefully he hadn't ripped the memories out too harshly in his haste to reach Erik. Navigating through minds and extricating the right memories from them were far more complicated procedures than the non-telepathics would ever know. If Charles had done it right, the most the soldiers would be missing would be their recollection of what they ate at the mess last night – not that they wanted to remember anyways. In what way did that resemble chicken? – and Charles craving for his not-mother's home specialty made _pirog _would be gone by the time they flew back to headquarters.

_'Our 'hobby' doesn't usually involve other mutants, let alone other telepaths, especially a telepath that has every reason to expect and kill us'_ Wesley countered Charles' mutation and Wesley's assassin skills and reflexes, there was little in the world that could truly pose a threat to them individually. But when you had enemies like Lensherr's that included a telepath as adept at using her powers as Charles, if not more so, who could shut down their total capability in half...

Wesley was no slouch. Even without Charles half of their abilities, he was confident that his own alone were still enough to take down a small army. But was he good enough to face mutants of Lensherr's caliber – because they had to exist, Lensherr didn't throw himself off that ship – alone and head on? Not fucking likely.

Charles caught on to that thought in an instant. Here was something he could work with. _'Ah but you see, my friend, you forget that we are not alone, not anymore.'  
><em>

And Wesley couldn't believe Charles. _'Oh no, that line may have caught Lensherr hook, line, and sinker, but if you think it's going to work on me think again.' _Wesley let a beat pass before, _'I hope this isn't going to be your next 'groovy mutation'.'  
><em>

_'It's worked so far, hasn't it?'_ Charles replied shamelessly. The sad part was Wesley really couldn't argue against it either, even Moira fell for Charles charm a little when he tried the same line on her again – it probably only failed the first time because Charles literally smelled like a yard of ale.

Wesley gave up, Charles was impossible, _'Just shut the fuck up and find Lensherr.'  
><em>

Charles didn't bask long in his small victory before he did just that and opened his mind's eye to the world around them, to seek out Erik's presence. It takes a few brief moments of carefully expanding his influence as to not alert the other telepath – and in which Charles can't help feeling the disorientating few conscious soldiers' _fearanxietypainconfusion _– before he manages to tether himself to Erik's steady burning _irage/i_, which isn't much of an improvement at all – it is Wesley who has to unclench their fist – but at least he can tell how far Erik is from Frost.

And the answer to that was too close to be safe and too far from them for comfort. While Chares had become fairly adept at using his power over the years, he'd never tested their mettle against a fellow telepath and wasn't quite sure they would match up to standards. They had to close the distance at least.

Charles didn't want to ask, especially when just a second of vulnerability was enough for a strong enough telepath to dig their mental claws on you but...

_'Let me,' _was the only warning Charles got before he was forcefully ejected to the backseat of their shared body and then it was Wesley running full speed through the halls, crossing each in seconds and pushing their shared body more than Charles ever could.

_'And what was this I heard about disliking Erik?'  
><em>

_'Extraneous circumstance'_

Wesley feels a warm feeling creep up around his chest. _'I appreciate it, Wesley, truly.'  
><em>

And Wesley can't help but smile, _'It's nothing, just hate leaving a job half-assed.'  
><em>

It doesn't take much longer that before they start hearing cries of choked _{Intrud-!}_.

"Erik," Wesley called as soon as he spotted the other man at the far end of the hall, carefully checking himself from calling out 'Lensherr' instead. "Erik, wait up!" But goddamn it, Lensherr is completely ignoring him; too busy stringing the soldier around like marionettes.

"Erik you asshole, wait up!"

Somehow, that is all it takes to get Erik to stop and Wesley relinquishes control back to Charles who has to stumble at their body's sudden exhaustion a few feet behind Erik, "Finally," he manages to huff. After a very brief ambush and Wesley playing as Charles – and doing a terrible job at it for a man that's known Charles all his life, to which Wesley argues _i'I'm a killer, not an actor'_, _/i_they barge into a room where a man is fucking air.

_'W-what the fuck?'  
><em>


	4. Chapter 4

Armando is dead and gone, and Charles couldn't help but think his death could have been avoided if only Charles hadn't sought him out in the first place. No longer would his eyes take on that special shine as he miraculously transformed his skin to armored hide and loose gills, no longer would Charles feel his simple happiness for the easy acceptance of who and what he was. No longer would he be able to share laughs over cheesy nicknames or bump shoulders over a private joke between the two them or bet chips and drinks over rounds on the pinball machine the Professor somehow managed to sneak in with Mr. Lensherr. He can't help but feel responsible. Armando is dead and gone and _fuck, if only I had..._

It's no longer Charles thinking these thoughts. Fuck, it's not even Wesley. It's Alex whose guilt Charles' is feeling and Charles can't help but be pulled into it because it feels so similar to his own. Wesley takes this as good a sign as any that he should takeover and does so gently, confining Charles and his half of their powers to the space of their own head.

Charles himself is so far gone for the moment that he barely registers the growing distance between the feel of his body – it starts with the fingers, then the toes, and from there it spreads to their arms and legs – before that same distance reaches his mind and finally Charles thoughts and grief are purely his own – and not Alex's, Sean's, Hank's, or Raven's.

With mental space to breathe at last, Charles uses the time to compose himself. For as strong as the children's grief for Armando is, stronger still is their need for vindication and fulfilling the purpose for which they originally formed their ragtag band of mutants: stopping Shaw and protecting and keeping their newfound family. And the children, who look up to him, needed Charles to be strong and bear the weight of their expectation.

There is no room for either grief or rage, for those feelings would only lead him astray. There can only be determination and serenity. Sadness that they have lost one of their own and outrage that Shaw would take his vendetta against humans on the children – who were only now growing into themselves, no longer under the careful scrutiny of those that would judge them different and hate them for it.

Wesley is not Charles though and he will feel for Charles, what Charles will not feel for himself, especially the rage. _'That's why I'm here, Charles.' _There are two of them for a reason, and Wesley believes this is his.

Whether or not Sebastian Shaw's name – Schmidt, Shaw, the Black King, whatever the fuck his real one was – came up on the loom didn't mean jack shit to Wesley. Either way, he was a dead man. Wesley couldn't help feeling the ghost sensation of hot adrenaline running through his veins just thinking about it. He would enjoy every fucking second as a bullet tore through the bastard Shaw's-

Charles and Wesley both are startled from their rumination when a rough, callused hand – Lensherr's – grips their own with an unexpected carefulness and there is a feeling that neither can tell is theirs or the other's. Wesley is stuck between the transition from rage to _this _- whatever this is – and cannot get their mouth to form words that would be Charles or even his own. It is Charles that recovers first.

"They're only children, Erik."


End file.
